The Girl in the Painting
by emerald1198
Summary: Eli finds Fiona the night of Charlie's rejection, broken and in the midst of an alcohol relapse.  Can he ever convince her that the girl in the painting is not the stranger Fiona sees her to be?  Friendship, nothing more.  One-shot.


_**Well, I've been so inspired lately by Eli and Fiona's friendship. I'm real busy, and it's been hard to write. But . . . I'm getting this idea out of my brain once and for all. **_

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**The Girl in the Painting **

**-Fiona-**

Fiona presses her lips to the bottle, inhaling the bittersweet scent of the little alcohol still left. She traces her black fingernails down the spine, tapping on the glass in a simple rhythm to try and distract herself from the hurt. The terrible, utter heartache.

Lines of black mascara and eyeliner are stinging her cheeks where the salty tears blended with the makeup, streaming down her face. She wishes she hadn't worn so much now, but it was because she had been so eager to impress Charlie.

The picture of her is still propped up against the wall. Fiona tried to hang it moments ago, but the alcohol had left her limbs clumsy and unreliable. So, she sits the on the step, meeting the eyes of Charlie's creation, and she realizes that this was never her. Charlie saw a different girl than she ever was. Charlie saw a perfect girl with a good life and lots of people that loved her and cared for her. But that was just the impersonator that Fiona kept trying to be, and she hates herself now for letting Charlie think that she could ever be _that _girl.

She takes another swig of the alcohol, leaving only a few gulps left. _This _is who she is, an alcoholic who can't deal with the pain on her own. A screw-up who hides behind something that only makes her more pathetic in the eyes of someone like Charlie.

She might as well embrace it, because this is what the rest of her life will be like. She might as well let the alcohol takes its toll on her. What's the reason to fight anymore? Who is there to be proud of her self-control?

Suddenly, there is low rap on the door, and Fiona jolts a bit but doesn't move otherwise. She can't see Holly J. right now, and she knows that her friend will leave if she figures that Fiona is sleeping. She holds her breath for some odd reason, as if the sound will travel across the room and through the wooden door.

"Fiona?" The voice is low, male, and it catches Fiona off guard. There's a pause as her visitor waits for an answer, but Fiona is too scared to speak. "Fiona, it's me . . . Eli. Um, I _did _call," he insists, and Fiona can't help but smirk, even through the tears.

"I just got my uniform for prom tomorrow . . . it's _huge _on me. I thought maybe you could sew it, hem it . . . whatever. You know, if you're not too busy."

Fiona still doesn't answer, and she hears Eli sigh in exaggeration. "I know you're in there, Fi. Look, I know you're not happy about me denying you prom accompany, but you could at least send me away to my face."

"You can come in," she breathes, her voice raspy and her tongue tasting bittersweet from the sparkling alcohol. Her hand snaps up to try and rub the evidence from her face, her opposite one stashing the nearly empty bottle behind her just as the younger teenager emerges from outside.

His eyes are darker than usual, eyeliner smeared heavily underneath them. He's wearing a faded t-shirt with a logo for a band that Fiona has never heard of on the front and sagging pajama pants, and he's holding a white polo shirt along with long dress pants. But he hangs them on one of the hooks lining the wall when he sees Fiona, crouched up in the corner of the second step.

She can just imagine how she looks to him right now, bloodshot eyes, skin covered in chalky makeup and streams of what used to be tears. But why does it matter? She's done trying to fool those around her like she did Charlie. Eli deserves to know the truth about her. The truth about the pathetic, alcoholic screw-up.

Eli moves across the room, his dark eyes worried yet hesitant. "Fiona . . . ?" He asks, his voice low and raspy like her own, and, for a moment, she wonders why. But she decides not to ask.

"I'm not the girl in that picture," she sighs, nodding carelessly at the painting lying feet away from her, "So, if you're looking for _her_, you should probably leave . . . just like everyone else."

Eli takes a few more steps closer to her to see the artwork, and a small smile pulls at his lips. It's not the smirk she's used to, and she can't decide whether this makes it all the more genuine or simply not credible.

"I don't know," he says, studying the girl in the picture, "She sure looks a lot like you."

Fiona lets out a cynical chuckle. "It's not me, though. Because it was painted by someone who doesn't know the _real_ me."

Eli nods in understanding, taking a seat next to her on the step. "It could be you," he ponders, "If you wanted it to be."

She lowers her head into her hands, her brown curls falling over her forearms. "Who is that?" She asks, gesturing to the painting, "_Who_ is she?"

She turns her head to the side to glance at Eli. He's considering his answer, looking the portrait over once more. "I guess that depends on who you make her . . . You know, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, not the artist."

She takes another look at the reflection in the swirls of color. She wants to be this girl. She wants this girl to be _her. _

Eli sighs. "I actually know that girl," he muses.

Fiona cocks her head to one side and, despite the depression, a playful smirk manages to pull at her lips. "Do you, now?"

He smirks. "Yeah, as a matter fact, she's one of my best friends. And she's been through some pretty tough things in her life." He pauses to look down at her, "You know, I'd never tell her this" – Fiona lets out a small giggle – "But . . . she's one of the strongest people I know."

Fiona looks up at the boy, and she can feel her eyes glistening with tears.

"And, you know," Eli continues, "that girl has her doubts about herself sometimes, and she thinks that maybe she's lost. But I know _that _girl will always find herself again, because, even if she doesn't realize it . . . she has a lot of people who care about her. And _they _know who she is inside, even if she, herself, can't see it at times."

Fiona's heart is rising, her breathing slowing down, but then her eyes catch the bottle behind her. And she remembers that she can never be the girl Eli is talking about. "A total screw-up?" She sighs, reaching for the bottle, preparing to absorb the pain with one last drink.

But Eli snatches the bottle, his dark sleeve wiping the lipstick stains from the lid, before pressing his own lips to it and gulping down the remains. He makes a sour face, but Fiona's heart is much too heavy to laugh at him right now.

"No," Eli shakes his head, slinging an arm around her shoulder, "She's actually a smart, funny, pretty girl who has more knowledge about fashion in her little finger than I do in my whole body. She's the only one I know that will tell me when I'm wrong and will go along with it when I light a script on fire, simply to keep me from looking like a fool.

She's a girl that doesn't trust people easily, but she can most certainly be bought by gifts" – Fiona giggles – ". . . And if she wasn't a lesbian, I'd have to say she's pretty hot. That girl is a really great person, and if Charlie can't see that, then maybe she should wait for a girl who can."

Fiona snivels, realizing that she's never had a friend better than the boy sitting beside her, and, for the first time, she believes that she may have one worth keeping in this crazy, messed up world. A choked sob escapes her, but this time, she isn't crying in sadness.

Before she knows what is happening, Eli is pulling her into a warm hug, his arms wrapping around her and his head resting against her curls. And she hugs him back, catching a glance of the clothes he brought with him over his shoulder.

She wants to thank Eli, to tell him that she would be nothing without him to lead her way, but she's too tired tonight. Her eyes are foggy, her brain still slightly intoxicated, and she's know that that conversation can wait for a night that she's done collecting her feeling for him.

So, for now, she gives him the one thing she can. "Would you like me to help you adjust the uniform?"

He smiles, "Sounds great, but, first . . . let me help you hang that up."

"The painting?" She asks, following his gaze to Charlie's piece.

Eli smiles again, warm and genuine. "Well, it's not just a painting. It's a _self-portrait_."

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_**Okay, so I started thinking about tonight's episode, and it turned into something other than my original idea (guess that one will just have to wait for another time) . . . but I'm proud of it.**_

_**Reviews would be lovely.**_


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